


Like an Explosion

by Dark_Eyed_Junco



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay, Zinc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Eyed_Junco/pseuds/Dark_Eyed_Junco
Summary: Nic knows a lot about bodily fluids.





	Like an Explosion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ionthesparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/gifts).



> Belatedly, here’s a gross fic for you, friend! This was meant to be a treat, but I'm not good at deadlines. 
> 
> Probably anyone clicking on anything tagged Dowd/Forbort is already aware of the context, but if not –  
> https://twitter.com/BizNasty2point0/status/748637610554195968  
> https://twitter.com/BizNasty2point0/status/751966247437291520
> 
> Additionally, here they are discussing what kind of sandwich they would be: https://tinyurl.com/ycnlv5t6  
> Derek says Nic would be a bunch of meatballs and pokes his stomach? Also he likes to think of himself as a ‘lean ham’? 
> 
>  
> 
> There is no meat lab at St. Cloud State, but I'm too tickled by meat science so I fudged it.
> 
> Sorry Nic. 
> 
> Thanks to thedeadparrot for humoring me as a I complained about a fic that is essentially entirely about masturbation.

Teammates can't keep secrets. That's a fact of life, and they’re even less to be trusted if the secret is anything embarrassingly personal. The more embarrassing the better, or if it’s entertainingly salacious – that really gets the boys going. And if the teammate in question is Biz, well, abandon all hope. This is a guy so lacking in discretion he’ll post pictures of 18-year old rookie players on Instagram alongside charming captions like #MakeSurethePulloutGame100. Apart from being inappropriate, it’s not even good advice. Derek knows this thanks to Nic.

(The beginning of that particular conversation –

Derek: You see what Biz posted?

Nic: Huh? Oh, wow.

Derek: Right? Connor McDusty? What a crack-up.

Nic: He shouldn’t spread shit like that. Studies show that some men contain motile sperm in their pre-ejaculate.

Derek: I – what?

Nic: Motile sperm. Pre-ejaculate.

Derek: What?

So that had been educational, though he's still not sure why Nic couldn’t have just said mobile like a normal person.)

Anyway, he knew his business was going to get put on blast. Maybe he hadn’t been expecting to the entire wild world of Twitter, but certainly to the team. It’s wholly unsurprising when Nic pulls up into the driveway of their shared LA place after a summer break spent visiting family and the first thing Derek hears out of his mouth is an incredulous, “Like an explosion?” Basically, Nic parks, sets the brake, opens his door, and hits Derek with the question before even getting out, as if it was in any way time-sensitive.

“Yeah, man,” Derek says. He mimes an explosion with his hands. “Boom.” Arlo is licking the backseat window trying to get out. “Two months you haven’t seen me and this is your priority number one when we’re face-to-face? I don’t get a hug?” That’s a tough reward for being a good roommate and coming out to help haul luggage. It’s hot too. Summer; lot of sun.

“Like an explosion, though.” Nic says it like he still can’t quite believe, then pulls his keys free from the ignition in a jangle and steps out of the car. He lets the dog out too.

“Fuck yeah, exactly like an explosion.” Derek does the mini-explosion with his hands again, but no sound-effect this time. Whatever, he’s not ashamed. What was the alternative? Not asking and then not knowing when it was safe to work one out? Seems bad. He might have hurt himself. And there was no way he could have asked the surgeon – she reminded him of his mother. “You should have seen it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Huh?” He stoops to scratch Arlo’s ears. Dogs are great. Arlo is much cuter than his owner, and talks back less too. “Why’s what?”

“Why should I have seen it?”

Derek’s thrown for a loop. So far no one has challenged him to explain himself – in his experience guys have only ever made _gross, man_ faces and called him disgusting. “Yeah, well, because,” he says, stalling. Isn’t this self-explanatory? Because it was – like an explosion? No, he’s said that too many times already. Time to get creative. “Because it was so great, man, like, fireworks shooting right out of the tip of my penis. Get your Fourth started early. Happy Independence Day, motherfuckers. It was just, a whole zone of,” he waves his hand in front of his face, “contested airspace, over here, for a while. There was a lot of mobile sperm. A lot. Super mobile. Some landed on my nose.”

Nic’s face is doing something funny, kind of a mix between horrified revulsion and fascination. His mouth is working but no sounds are coming out. He appears truly stunned.

That’s alright. Derek is really starting to hit his stride now. “Easily the longest orgasm of my life,” he boasts. “Once I popped, I could not stop. A minute maybe? And like, thirty separate shots.”

“Thirty shots, c’mon,” says Nic. Apparently his need to chirp has overcome his shock. “No way; that’s a lie.

“It’s not a lie; I counted.”

“Oh, yeah? You counted up to thirty while you were experiencing the best orgasm of your life? Sure, that’s plausible.” Nic loads himself up with duffel bags – straps cross and overlap wildly across his chest and shoulders – and whistles at Arlo to come inside with him.

“I didn’t say the best,” says Derek. Apparently this discussion is going to continue inside the house. “I said the longest.” He thinks about for it a moment. “I mean, maybe it was the best too? It was like being edged for two weeks and then finally getting some release. You ever been edged, Dowder? Dowder?” Belatedly he realizes he came back into the house empty-handed. Oh well. He follows Nic into the kitchen. “You don’t believe me.”

“Not for a second.” He’s pouring himself a glass of water from the filtered tap. Light from the window over the sink is falling over his face and throat. Okay, maybe he’s almost as cute as his dog. If you’re into that kind of thing.

“Oh, I know what’s going on here,” says Derek. “You’re jealous, right? What’s your nut look like? Three sad dribbles and you’re done?” It crosses his mind that it’s a more than a little weird to be imagining his roommate’s ejaculatory force and volume in such detail, but oh well. Honor is at stake here.

Nic sighs, loudly. He puts his glass down in the sink, loudly. He turns around. “Okay, let’s see it then. If you’re going to shit-talk.”

“What?”

“Show me this explosion everyone should see. According to you.”

“Oh, uh.” What the fuck? Nic has a strange, intent look on his face. It might be described as clinical? Derek is reminded of the particular way his surgeon frowned with focused concentration while drawing lines all over his groin, like he was just a slab of muscle and tendon to be cut into and moved around. He has a sudden powerful urge to cross his legs. “I mean, I can’t right now because, um. I just.” He gestures vaguely at the lower half of his body. “This morning. So. There wouldn’t be – enough.”

Nic raises an eyebrow. “Not enough for a proper spectacle? Okay, let’s do it in two weeks then.” He takes his phone out and types away like he’s honest-to-god scheduling. What does that even look like on someone’s calendar? 2-4: Preseason workout at TSC. 4-5: Watch Forbs jerk off? “I’m a little tired from the flight,” announces Nic. He puts his phone into his pocket. “Going to take a nap.” When he passes by Derek, he pats him on the shoulder. “Good talk. I feel like I learned a lot about you today.”

Derek is left standing alone in the empty kitchen. There’s only the sound of the clock on the wall ticking. What just happened here? He didn’t actually – he hadn’t actually agreed to anything.

Right?

**

He feels better and less weird about it in the morning. So Nic wants to see the explosion. Why not? No big deal. The real annoying part is having to abstain for another two weeks during the lead-up to the main event. He'd just had to go through that. First he gets edged by hernia surgery and now he’s going to get edged by Nic Dowd?

Man. Derek’s sex life is so weird.

Days one and two are fine. He plays beach volleyball and doesn't think about sex at all. Or, well. Not more than usual.

Days three and four he starts feeling – not itchy or anything. But more aware. His thoughts start drifting in certain distracting directions more often. He catches himself paying more attention to random hot passersby on the street.

Day five doesn’t have a promising start. He wakes up with a big problem and is five furious seconds away from solving it when his brain catches up to his balls and he violently aborts what would have been the final, decisive motion. His elbow goes flying and bangs into the headboard, hard.

From the other room, “Are you getting started without me? Should I come in?”

Goddamn it. “No, fuck off,” he shouts back. This whole situation is so unjust. What’s so hard to believe about 30 spurts during a minute long orgasm? He looks down at his penis, which is lying on top of his stomach and pointed right at him. He wasn’t aware that a penis could look reproachful, but here they are. Plus his elbow hurts. “I know, buddy,” he sighs. “I know.”

Day five gets worse when he mopes his way down to the kitchen five minutes later and finds a disturbingly chipper Nic frying something on the stove. When he hears Derek sit down he asks, “How do you want your eggs?”

Nic isn’t wearing a shirt, which is dumb. The muscles of his back move in smooth and interesting ways when he grabs the pan handle to flip his eggs over, but also, how is he not splashing hot oil over himself? Fuck. You know things are dire when you start noticing your roommate’s back muscles. Derek puts his head down on the kitchen table and says, “You’re dumb.”

“Not familiar with you’re dumb, but I can do scrambled.”

The prospect of food revitalizes him a little. He lifts his head. “Can I get over easy?”

Nic frowns at him. “Salmonella.”

“If you’re not going to let me choose why did you even ask?”

“You can choose,” Nic says. “You just have to choose right. A lot of factory hens have bacteria colonized ovarian tracts.” He starts cracking shells over the rim of the pan. “You can have your egg well-fried.”

“Gee, thanks, Dr. Nic.”

“Just a bachelor for now.” He brings the plate of eggs over and winks at Derek. Their kitchen came pre-furnished with very high and very classy stools and a matching high and classy table. The table is hard to see around, but now that Nic has come over Derek can see that he’s wearing sweatpants. There are several readily apparent points of evidence suggesting that he’s not wearing any underwear underneath.

The way Derek leans his whole body to the side so he can get a good view of Nic’s ass walking away from him is sadly just further evidence of how far he’s fallen since that sunny morning in the driveway five days past. So long ago now.

**

Days six and seven are more of the same. Nic continues to heighten the – pressure. And all with a bright, wholesome grin, almost cheesing, like a choirboy or someone you might bring to meet your grandparents. Except it’s all a lie. For instance, on the seventh day he asks Derek, “You finally being a good boy and keeping your hands off yourself? I didn’t hear you abusing yourself this morning. That’s good. Remember I got a date to see you explode.” So, like the boy you bring home to meet the family, except later that night he covers your mouth with his hand and fucks you in your childhood bed while your dad sleeps in the room over? Maybe? That analogy went a strange place. Why the hell is Derek thinking about Nic fucking him?

Anyway, the key here is not too protest too much, or let on that you’re bothered. Guys can sense weakness like that, it’s uncanny. Sharks, all of them. “Whatever,” he says, trying for a careless tone. Not the world’s best acting, but the best he can do when the crotch of his pants is trying to strangle him. Which it's doing now. (He would do a waistband tuck, but can’t get away with it since Nic is looking right at him.) “I don’t need two weeks to build up. I can do an explosion a week.”

“You are way too impressed with yourself. You know, when I took animal behavior and husbandry – “

“Oh?” says Derek. “At Saint Clod? Was this before or after you took that class on meat science?”

“- industry focuses on artificial insemination. You might collect 30 mills from a bull a day, so you’re not the stud you think– “

“And there was a meat lab? Where you spent long nights? Studying your meat?”

“-and they freeze them in liquid nitrogen in these vials called straws, which is a pretty disgusting image when you think about it, so I don’t know why-“

“Did you ever ask to look at a classmate’s meat? You know? To compare?”

“-might be worth a thousand dollars. If you think anyone is ever going to pay you that much for your-“

“How did your meat stack up? I’m just curious.”

“Goddamn it, Derek,” Nic bursts out, finally. “Would you stop making meat jokes?”

Derek smiles. “Man,” he says. “Do you know a lot about bull semen. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Don’t try to make this dirty. It’s biology. It’s a fact of life. The facts of life, actually.”

“Sure, whatever. But you’re wrong. I bet I could get paid a thousand bucks to whack off into a cup. I’m like, way tall. And a pro athlete.”

“Pro athlete, huh? What would your profile say? Longest development period ever for a first-round pick? That’s going to get your genetic material a lot of interest.”

“Hey,” protests Derek, in a small, wounded voice. They’re supposed to be old rookie buddies together. Then he goes into his room to be sad, but like. In a manful way. Mainly it’s a lot of loud music and working over the punching bag he has set up in the corner of his room.

Day eight he sulks and nurses the bruises on his knuckles.

Day nine Nic buys him In-N-Out to apologize. (With a mouth full of fries: “Okay, now say, Derek, people would totally pay a thousand bucks for your swimmers.” “Derek, people would absolutely pay you a thousand bucks for your swimmers.)

Day ten he walks into his bedroom and finds Nic in the en-suite, rummaging through his medicine cabinet. “What are you – what are you doing in there?”

“Oh, Forbs.” He sticks his head out of the cabinet. “You’re back. Hey.”

“Back and wanting to know what you’re doing in my bathroom.”

“Need to make sure you aren’t hiding any zinc in here. Hold these, they're in the way.” He throws over several skinny tubes of Colgate; Derek tries but doesn't manage to catch any. “Why are you keeping so much trash?”

“Making sure I’m not hiding any what?” He goes to gather up the toothpaste. “And there's still some in these, you just have to squeeze really hard.” He holds one up to demonstrate. Nothing comes out. Hopefully that's not an omen or anything.

“Hiding any zinc supplements.”

“Why would I be doing that?” He stands and takes a cautious step towards Nic. Cautious because some time between day six and day eight, Nic's body decided to start smelling really good.

“Zinc is really important for spermatogenesis. I don't want you artificially enhancing your performance.”

“You think I'm _doping_ with _zinc_?”

“I wouldn't put it past you, honestly.”

“Nic. Buddy. Alright, come here. Wait, put my razor down first. Okay, come here.” He takes Nic by the upper arms to bodily maneuver him out of the room. Nic's biceps feel nice. Solid? Solid is apparently nice now. That must have happened on day nine. “Nic, do I seem like the type of guy who knows what zinc is, much less what it does?”

“Okay,” admits Nic. “Maybe not.”

“I'm glad we cleared that up.” He starts to usher Nic out. “New cologne, by the way? No? Deodorant? Shampoo? Hair tonic? Uh, detergent? No, nevermind, it's not important.” Right before he closes the door on Nic in the hallway he asks, super casually, “You said zinc does what about spermy-genesis again?”

Day eleven he drives to CVS and buys a 60-tablet thing of chelated zinc. He's not sure what chelated means, but he assumes it's a good thing. The instructions say to take one a day, so he takes two and washes them down with a swallow of water. Huh. Then he takes two more for good measure. Oh, what the hell. He tilts his head back and tips the bottle into his mouth and knocks back a stiff shot of zinc. Then he burps, twice.

To dispose of the evidence he dumps the remains of the bottle into some scrubby, wilting plants surrounding the CVS parking lot. Nic will never know.

Day twelve he feels sick to his stomach and is forced to pretend he caught a 24-hour bug.

By day thirteen, his willpower is fading fast. He weathers the daylight hours, but nighttime calls for additional vigilance. His body is used to late-night for certain habit-forming activities. (It's a sleep aid, he swears.) Maybe he can sweat it out. Exhaust himself, go to bed, and wake up to the big day, something like that.

First he goes for a long, winding run. He's a big man built for short bursts of activity; endurance running is not one of his strong suits. Then he takes a cold shower, dries his hair, and lies down in bed. He thinks hopeful thoughts about non-sexy things, like his family, or animal husbandry, or how he imagines things will go with the team the next few months.

Oh, Vegas, sure. Derek is being trusted with a lot of important ice time, which is nice though also a little wishful. Nic is playing too which – oh, goddamnit, Nic, keep your uniform on please. Nic, that's not hygienic or safe. Fuck. Derek's sexual appetite is indefatigable and refuses to respect appropriate boundaries. This is like the first time he'd given blood. Despite being reliably told by several friends that he'd have trouble getting an boner for the next hour or so, he'd proceeded to pop and maintain massive wood both during and for quite some time after the entire procedure (In his defense, the nurse was really cute.)

Back to pummeling the punching bag, he guesses. But then Nic hears him grunting and in general making a lot of impact-related noise and has to pipe in. “Really, Derek? The night before? I know you have a lot of faith in your, uh, special capacity, but haven't you ever heard of hubris?”

A complete and dangerous calm smothers right over Derek. He catches and hugs the bag to him to stop its movement. He's suddenly possessed with absolute clarity of focus. Here's what is going to happen. He's going to jack someone off today, and if it can't be himself, it might as well be Nic. This makes perfect sense.

He takes half a second to wipe the sweat off his face and then walks next door to gatecrash.

Nic is sitting up in bed reading a paperback. “What?” he says. Then, “Hey,” when Derek pulls back the covers and climbs into bed with him. “You're so sweaty. Did you wash your hands?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

Nic turns to mark his place and put his book down on the bedstand. Derek takes this opportunity to get cozier with him. While turning back Nic says, “Yeah, that's why I asked – oh. Hi.”

“Hello.” Their faces are very close together now. Nic's ears are pinkening. For whatever reason, he seems flustered. “So I was thinking,” says Derek. He very deliberately puts a hand on Nic's (bare) chest.

“Uh.”

“Yeah?” Derek trails one hand-length lower and watches with interest as Nic's eyelashes flutter, like he's fighting an instinct to close his eyes.

“Uhm.”

“Okay?” He reaches lower. Interesting texture down here. Abs like little speed bumps; hair.

“Yea - “

Oh, Nic's already hard. This is going to be a walk in the park. 

“-h, _fuck_.”

Four minutes later it's all over. Including the shouting. 

“Three sad dribbles,” Derek says, with some satisfaction. “I knew it. See? Told you I can keep count.” He reaches over to smear the worst of it off onto the dresser to his side. Then he waves his hand in the air to dry off the rest. He's a considerate guy who's not out to stain anyone's sheets. Severe drought going on after all.

“My orgasm, not your own. That's different.” Nic sounds sleepy, and his eyes are closed. It's more adorable than it has any right to be, to be honest.

“Oh, but you've got no problem with me calling you a dribbler?”

“Whatever.” Nic wants to cuddle now, which is fine. His limbs have a loose recklessness to them. Derek magnanimously allows himself to be manhandled. “You're the one who's obsessed with jizz. I just care that it feels good.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah, man, how'd you get so good at that?” Nic asks. A yawn almost swallows his last words.

“I've had a lot of practice with my hand.”

“God, your talent for the self-own is absolutely brutal, Forbs.”

“Hey,” he says, mildly. But Nic is asleep.

**

Day fourteen he wakes up in Nic's bed, with Nic, whose even exhalations of breath are tickling the hairs on his neck. It's nice. Lots of things about Nic are nice, he's come to discover. “Bud,” he says. “Wake up.”

“Whoa,” says Nic, wakening. He jerks away, then carries the momentum into an escaping roll. Promptly, he falls of the bed. There's a muffled, blanket-cushioned thump.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I'm fine!” He hops to his feet. His ears are pink again. From somewhere on the floor he scavenged up a bottle of Febreze, which he busily starts spraying over the bed. While Derek is still on it.

Okay, okay. Derek can tell when he's not wanted. Though he's not sure why Nic's trying to freshen the bed; he'd have more luck Febrezing the dresser. Or, like. Derek's hand. “Um,” he says. “I'm going back to my room.”

Nic has turned to Febreze part of the wall, which seems even less necessary than the bed. The back of his neck is red now too; he nods furiously without turning to look at Derek.

Later, Nic comes down to the living room. Sadly, he's wearing clothes now. He's also showered and done his hair. It's very easy to tell by his manner and the careful way he picks out his words that he's determined to pretend like nothing happened last night.

Which is weird, but okay for now. Derek is mainly wondering whether or not today's extracurriculars are still on. He waits with great anticipation the whole day, but Nic doesn't bring it up.

Derek waits and waits until there's nothing for it: he's going to have to take matters into his own hands. So to speak. He calls Nic into his room, then says, “Hey, Nic,” with the air of great casualness he thought had served him well during the whole zinc affair. “We still doing that thing today?”

Nic squints at him. “What thing?”

“You know. You wanted to watch my – my thing.”

“Oh my god, Derek.”

“What?” he says, defensively.

“You didn't think I was serious, did you? Do you really think I want to watch you jerk-off? Why would I want to do that?”

“I -” that suddenly strikes Derek as a good question. Feeling foolish, he starts picking at his thumbnail. And not just today's foolishness; he has a whole two weeks of it to process right this moment. He doesn't look at Nic.

“Wow, Derek. Wow. This is like that time in college I said that everytime a guy ejaculates he loses a hundred grams of protein and the skinniest guy on the team believed me. Went white as a sheet and probably lived like a monk for a month. I bet you fell for the zinc thing too, didn't you? Oh fuck, you did. Biz is going to shit himself.”

Derek doesn't say anything. He switches to picking at his toenail.

“Derek?”

They really need a good trimming. And why is his knee so hairy? He doesn't know how he's never noticed that before.

“Derek, are you going to go all sad on me again?”

“Maybe.”

“Aw, buddy. Buddy.”

“What?”

“If you really want to do it, then okay. I'll watch.”

“Really?” He's not sure why that placates him, but it does. Maybe he has an exhibitionist side. You know what, that probably makes sense. “Alright then.” He pulls little Derek out of his fly; no sense in waiting around. Little Derek isn't too into it right now – turns out humiliation isn't particularly arousing – but hopefully he'll perk up in a second. Right now Derek is wondering more about what to do with his shirt. Take it off? Leave it on? What are the rules for masturbating in front of your teammate/roommate/best friend? Maybe he should ask, seeing as how it was Nic came up with the whole idea, even if it was a joke. He half-lifts his shirt off, then stops and says, “Hey, Nic.”

Which is when he sees it. Nic's mouth is slightly open; he's breathing heavily; his pupils are very big and flicking up and down all the new stretches of skin Derek is exposing.

Wait a minute. “Hold the fuck on.” Derek crumples his shirt into a ball and throws it to the ground. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Nic licks his lips, then catches himself. He shakes his head like he's clearing his head. “What?” he asks, uncertainly.

“You're going to watch me jack-off just to make me feel better? Like, out of the goodness of your heart? Come on, dude. Just admit I get you all hot and bothered.”

“No, that's - “

“You planned this out from the beginning. You just had to make up some bullshit reason because you didn't want to admit it or something. But actually you're turned on by the idea of me and my explosions. Huh? Dowder?”

Nic blinks, once, then hangs his head. Jackpot. “This is so embarrassing,” he groans. “ _You're_ so embarrassing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Derek. He has no patience for Nic's hangups. It's been roughly five hundred years since he last bust a nut. He's not even sure he remembers how. Little Derek has taken an interest and is finally starting to stiffen up to the ceiling, though. “Get over it and come give me a hand.”

Some ends up on Nic's nose. It was like an explosion.

 


End file.
